


Beguiling Glamour

by NotPersephone



Series: Count and Countess Lecter [36]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Dancing, F/M, Fancy evening attires, Hair Kink, perfect marrieds are perfect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 16:37:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21274340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotPersephone/pseuds/NotPersephone
Summary: Bedelia and Hannibal attend their first gala as Count and Countess.





	Beguiling Glamour

“The anonymity did not last long.”

Bedelia turns the square of paper in her hands, elaborate engravings and flourish letters shining with a promise of splendour.

She knew something was brewing when Hannibal welcomed her that morning with the usual offering of coffee and fresh pastries but the brighter than usual spark in his eyes. But he waited until she finished her breakfast to show her the invitation that arrived yesterday.

“Well, there is only a certain number of auctions one can win without raising an interest in the appropriate circles,” perched on the edge of the bed, Hannibal watches as she considers the offer.

It is true that Hannibal has been rather occupied the last few months, obtaining art and antique furniture to suit their newly formed home in its restored chic. Their identity remained undisclosed, of course, all purchases made to a “private collector”; only a few selected people were privy to their name, yet it was enough to raise interest.

And as the result of that, she is now looking at an invitation for an art gala at the Kunsthistorisches museum in Vienna.

“It looks like a very private event with a hand-picked guest list,” Hannibal addresses her worry, unvoiced, yet clearly visible in the furrow of her brows.

“It appears so,” she does not look at him, eyes taking in the intricate print on the card, remaining in deep contemplation, her thoughts heavy with memories of their past.

Similar, countless invitations and numerous galas that followed marked their time in Italy like a string of fairy-lights, their warm glow still lingering in her mind; Hannibal’s perfect charm and social graces winning over any gathering and while she remained sceptical of their constant exposure, she would lie if she said she did not enjoy it. Quite the contrary, Hannibal’s ever attentive presence and the thrill of masquerading under aliases in high society made her pulse rush in ways she did not expect, even if seeing an unfamiliar name, one she should have considered her own felt cumbersome.

But this is different; no strange names look back at her from the ivory-coloured square, but their very own.

_Their name_, not just his anymore. The concept is still fresh in her mind, yet it does not make her feel uneasy. Neither does her brand-new title, shining brightly in golden ink swirls.

_Count and Countess Lecter_

“We can decline the invitation,” Hannibal speaks again, unsure how to interpret her silence.

She looks up at him at last, staring at her with soft affection. She knows Hannibal savours their quiet paradise beyond all, but she is also aware that he likes to spread his peacock feathers at times. She looks at the invitation one last time, feeling the rush of a thrill she thought has long faded surging within her.

“No,” she puts the card down and meets his gaze, “I would like to attend.”

Hannibal’s eyes light up with excitement and he moves to sit closer to her, arm already encircling her waist.

“They will all fall in love with you, Countess,” he proclaims solemnly, lips pressing against hers, as if it were their first ever public appearance. And in a way, it is.

Her title on his lips sends a pleasurable shiver down her spine and the corner of her mouth turns up as she returns the kiss. It seems the feathers he wishes to show off are not all his.

“We will need new attires,” he states, pulling away from her lips, more matter-of-factly now, ready to set the next steps in motion.

Bedelia nods, but her head tilts and her eyes narrow sceptically as she considers his devotion to _practicalities_.

“Perhaps I should look after your suit for a change,” she responds, her tone mirroring his.

This time Hannibal’s stare turns doubtful.

“If you wish to, but why, if I may ask?” he inquires tentatively.

“Well, it is only fair,” she smiles, amused that she has managed to startle him so easily, “You cannot tell me you have not conceived my entire attire the moment you have opened the invitation.”

Hannibal does not even try to deny it, a cheeky grin appearing on his lips instead. She would scorn him if it did not make him look so endearing. She reaches her hand instead, stroking his cheek with her usual mix of reprimand and affection.

“It is settled then,” she leans forward, sealing the agreement with another kiss. Hannibal does not object to either.

A string of communication between Bedelia and Hannibal’s favoured tailor in Milan follows in the days that come, making her eventually decide on a three-piece suit in deep maroon shade, one matching his eyes and a bow with a playful checkered pattern, one she knows he will enjoy. The right prize ensured the piece would be finished with time to spare.

Her own dress remains a mystery Hannibal keeps close, only an occasional gleam of excitement directed at her giving away a successful progress to his endeavour. She does not press him; every outfit he has ever bought for her was perfect and she enjoys the added excitement of the unknown, something that is always present when it comes to Hannibal. She has not realised how much she missed both.

The date of the event closes in on them quickly and they set on their way to Vienna a day before the gala. Both outfits arrive packed at their hotel suite together with the rest of their luggage, still undisclosed.

They spend the day strolling around the city, elegant buildings and sombre churches framing their path. Stopping at numerous cafes, Hannibal spoils her with many sweet treats, all the different cakes she simply must try, in his opinion. She tells him it is too much, but allows herself to indulge, nonetheless. All excess is sweet when it comes to Hannibal, even if it does not involve sugar. And she enjoys herself tremendously.

Later that afternoon as Bedelia runs a bath before tonight’s event, Hannibal excuses himself under a pretence of wanting some additional fresh air before the gala, leaving her alone with plenty of time to prepare. But not before hanging the carefully covered attire on the door of the wardrobe.

It is flimsy excuse, of course; it is not like him to miss out on an opportunity to assist, or preferably participate, in her bathing rituals. Bedelia looks at the white and silver cover with a smile. She knows he looks forward to her reaction, but even more to seeing the dress on her in all its glamour, choosing to wait, no matter how hard it strains his impatience. It has been awhile since they played this game and Hannibal is determined to savour it to the last drop. Or perhaps, he is simply nervous. The thought makes her smile as she later leaves the bathroom, wrapped in silk and perfume, her hair carefully curled and ready to be arranged accordingly to her outfit.

She walks slowly towards the wardrobe, hands reaching out to stroke the cover, then letting her fingers settle at the top of its zipper. Bedelia feels the exhilaration rising within her as the zipper lowers. She has never enjoyed other people selecting items of personal nature for her, but with Hannibal, it electrifies her, each offering a chance to see herself through his eyes. And it has never been short of spectacular.

The cover parts at last, revealing a scoop neckline dress with a plunging back in a vibrant shade of lapis, her favourite colour. Layers upon layers of elegant tulle, draped languidly along the curve-skimming lines, with precious stones caught between the fine netting of the bust.

Removing her robe, she takes it out with care and slips it on with eagerness; it glides over her warm skin like refreshing stream, fitting her perfectly as anticipated. She has long stopped marvelling at Hannibal’s ability to know her measurements better than she does herself. And he has not lost his touch.

She adjusts the fabric, watching the dress rest on her curves with a mist like delicacy, as though water was made solid yet sustained its fluidity, its train pooling on the floor next to her feet like a wave washing on the shore.

Continuing to appraise herself in the mirror, she has not noticed Hannibal appearing the doorway. He remains standing on the spot, his fervent gaze set on her, eyes burning like embers with red sparks breaking through. It appears the wait was worthwhile. His stare warms her and excites her; she does not need his approval, but she wants his regard.

“It is a beautiful dress, Hannibal,” she says after a moment when he makes no attempt to step closer, “You have outdone yourself,” she smiles at the distant reflection of him, her hands returning to her waist, stroking the outline of the attire.

She can see his eyes becoming wider, knowing it is the incentive he needed, never satisfied with being a mere observer when he can partake in the experience. He walks into the room and stands behind her, hands resting where her own were mere seconds ago, grazing her waist, but almost timid in their caress.

“I am glad you like it,” he replies at last, his gaze still awestruck.

“When have I not?” she turns to look at him with an appreciative smile on her lips.

Hannibal responds with a smile of his own, his confidence fortified anew, the joy of being able to please her lighting up his face, like it did in Italy, as if no time has passed. The glow in his eyes now turns lustful, his hands shifting to her back, surer in their pursuit.

“But you still need to get ready,” she stops his desires before they unravel fully, stepping out of his reach and walking to the wardrobe to retrieve his suit.

The train of the dress whispers behind her as walks, like hushed secrets passing through a rivulet. Hannibal follows her obediently, lured by the melody; it thrills Bedelia even more. She takes out the covered hanger and presents it to Hannibal who wastes no time in unravelling the outfit. Hands perusing the wool, he scrutinises the suit with a contended stare and a pleased smile on his face.

“Do _you_ like it?” she asks, suddenly uncertain with the turning of the tables.

“I do,” he beams at her, “I think you should arrange all my suits from now on.”

Bedelia frowns at this shameless flattery, but still smiles as he walks towards the bed to laid out the outfit and appreciate it in full before starting to take off his current attire. Unlike Hannibal, she does not deny herself the pleasure of watching him dress. Sitting down at the suite’s vanity, she sets to put finishing touches to her make-up, a powder brush in her hand, but instead of focusing on her reflection, she watches as Hannibal removes his jacket and trousers. She smiles to herself as he takes off his shirt and folds it carefully before turning to retrieve the new one, giving her a proper view of his broad chest and shoulders from all angles. The white cotton shines brightly as he puts it on, further beaconing Bedelia’s focus. He takes his time buttoning it up, making the enticing image last longer, to Bedelia’s delight. The pants follow, another pleasurable angle for her to enjoy as her eyes shamelessly linger on his firm behind before it disappears beneath the maroon fabric. Still it frames it quite perfectly, allowing Bedelia to continue appreciating the sight. She takes a mental note to send a thank you card to the tailor, congratulating him on the excellent cut of the suit.

Smiling anew, Bedelia sets the brush down and reaches for her lipstick, applying a fresh coat to her lips. She presses the lips and her smile away, now focusing on her hair, ready to pin up her carefully arranged locks. A jacket in his hand, Hannibal pauses, a sharp flicker in his eyes. It disappears almost instantly but denounces that he has been following her routine as closely as she has his.

“What is it?” Bedelia asks, the pin in her hand suspended mid-air as her gaze once again falls on Hannibal’s reflection.

The corner of his mouth twitches, but he keeps silent, focusing on putting on his jacket.

“Hannibal,” she presses on, eyes narrowing, its gleam not faltering in her enquiry, sharp like the point of her pin.

In turn, his eyes glance aside in an unusual gesture of shyness, as if embarrassed to voice his concern. Finally, he clears his throat to ease the words through and meets her gaze.

“Could you wear it down?” he asks slowly.

She puts the pin down; she does not know what she has expected him to say, but the simplicity, and importance, of his request makes her smile instantly. The hand holding her locks up in their place moves away and they fall back on her shoulders in gentle waves. The embers in Hannibal’s eyes flare up afresh, sending shivers down her spine. She slowly adjusts the placement of each curl, eliciting more fervent looks from Hannibal and more flutters within her.

Finally, being satisfied with the coiffure, she abandons the spot on the chair and advances towards Hannibal. She picks up the only remaining component of his attire, the bow tie, and begins to tie it around his neck, taking her time while her fingers skim the line of the collar. Hannibal is more than willing to submit to her touch but does not rest idly; his own hand reaches out and traces the line of her meticulously arranged locks with delicacy.

Straightening the tied bow, Bedelia’s hands shift to rest on his chest, pressing gently, then move to stroke the lines of his lapel and shoulders, enjoying the feel of his body beneath the fabric, elegant to touch and warm to feel.

“All done,” she proclaims, adjusting the placement of his pocket square with a satisfied grin, a finishing touch, then turns back to appraise herself in the mirror one last time before they leave.

Hannibal’s arm sneaks around her waist instantly, pulling her back, no more reserve in his touch. She stares at the image of them, an entrancing couple, perfectly matched, casting a spell of allure in their shining new coats.

Eager lips press against the hollow of her collarbone as Hannibal holds her close, the rising heat of his body a tell-tale sign of his lust.

“We do not have time, Hannibal,” her tone is firm even if her body is giving in with such ease, leaning into the kiss, “It would be rude to be late,” she appeals to his sense of propriety.

He frowns but his lips do not leave her skin; she knows that he prefers when they take their time with their amorous activities but is apparently willing to make an exception.

“I guess we will have to be quick then,” he pronounces into her skin as lips press firmer into the sensitive spot at the base of her neck, making her legs quiver, a reminder of how effortlessly he is able to give her pleasure and how _little_ it takes for him to do so. The thought makes her skin blush, a fitting contrast to the cool blue of her dress.

“There will be _plenty_ of time later on,” her head turns away from his lips, even though her body moves with obvious reluctance.

Hannibal pouts, a strangely fetching expression on him, but releases her from his embrace.

“As you wish,” he nods in concurrence and offers Bedelia her coat, placing it gently on her shoulders.

They leave the suite before either of them has a chance to rethink their temporary restrain.

The pre-arranged car moves briskly along the now empty maze of streets and soon enough, the outline of their destination begins to loom on the horizon. The imposing building of the museum is shrouded in darkness, its plentiful treasures hidden for the night, only a few side lanterns delineating its guarded presence.

The driver stops at the side entrance, with its additional lights and rolled out carpet marking the spot, bright enough to guide the guests, but not overly so as to attract random attention. The man at the door further preserves the private nature of the event, each guest’s invitation being carefully inspected before he welcomes them in. Hannibal presents their invitation with a flourish of a hand and the man inclines his head, smiling, then escorts them inside.

The long hallway leads them to a brightly lit ballroom, its dazzle hidden from the outside. Intricate webs of chandeliers illuminate the spacious room, their light reflected in the myriad of stones adorning many exposed cleavages and crisp white of countless dress shirts, turning the space into a kaleidoscope of gleam. The air is heavy with a melange of perfumes fighting for their notes and generously flowing alcohol; her head swirling with abundance of sensations, Bedelia feels heady and she is yet to have a drink.

She glances at Hannibal, expecting him to take in the venue with glee, but instead, finds him looking back at her, careful consideration of her well-being shining brighter in his eyes than any of the gathered jewels. Bedelia’s hand wraps firmer around his forearm and she squeezes it gently in silent assurance. They both gaze at the gathering before finally making their way towards its centre, like two foxes walking into an oblivious hen house.

A diligent waiter appears as soon as they step into the room, a tray full of champagne glasses in his hand, and Hannibal takes two, offering one to Bedelia. She takes it with a smile on her face, her head tilting in a wordless toast to their evening. Hannibal follows suit, his smile even wider.

They barely manage to savour a mouthful of their drinks before an elderly man in a grey suit, matching his hair and beard, approaches them.

“Count Lecter, I am thrilled that you have accepted our invitation,” he takes Hannibal’s hand and shakes it with vigour, his energy in opposition to his age.

“Thank you for extending your hospitality, Mr Steiner,” Hannibal responds with his usual charm, then turns his gaze to Bedelia, ready to make introductions.

“And this must be your beautiful wife,” the man carries on without a pause, “I must say even your husband’s eloquent words could not do your justice,” he inclines his head in appreciation for her.

“Utterly exaggerated, I am certain,” Bedelia cannot help but smile, trying to envision what Hannibal was saying about her. Hannibal in turn shifts in his spot, undoubtedly displeased that the conversation has been pulled away from his charge.

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” she extends her hand to the man who leans forward at once and kisses it.

This time, she can sense Hannibal beaming, delighted by how stricken the man is.

“Mr Steiner helped me secure several pieces of furniture,” he proceeds with the previously interrupted presentation, “He is no match when it comes to finding unique works of extraordinary quality.”

“My expertise has certainly been tested to its limits,” the man responds with pretended modesty, clearly enjoying the flattery, “Especially with the Count’s precise demands. The vanity table was particularly hard to find.”

The corner of Bedelia’s mouth turns up slightly as she recalls Hannibal’s determination when it came to the perfect vanity for her and his utter dismay of not being able to locate the exact one that she loved so much in Florence. She often imagined who could find himself on the receiving end of his displeasure. Now she knew; and the man must have held up his own quite impressively.

“It was a magnificent find,” Bedelia remarks with all honesty.

“Now I understand why your husband was so insistent. Nothing short of perfection would be worthy of you,” the man’s demeanour shifts to more flirtatious tones but Bedelia does not mind. And surprisingly, for once, neither does Hannibal, still basking in the glare of the acclaim.

A voice from the distance calls the man’s attention and he begins to excuse himself, evident regret of having to leave their presence reflected on his face.

“Please enjoy yourselves. I hope you will have a wonderful evening,” the man says with another graceful nod of his head, “Countess, it was an utmost pleasure meeting you,” another kiss on Bedelia’s hand marks his words and with a final nod towards Hannibal, he bids them goodnight.

Bedelia turns to Hannibal with a puckish grin, all ready to further question his penchant for praising her in front of strangers, but another man takes Mr Steiner’s place almost immediately, quickly followed by more people, all keen on making their acquaintance.

Soon, they find themselves at the centre of attention, the initial tingle of the novelty replaced by the lasting impression of intrigue they exude. Art scholars and antiques merchants are all beckoned by the fascinating presence of the Count and Countess.

“Lecter?” an English expert on fifteen century bookbinding weights their surname on his tongue together with a sip of cognac, “Wasn’t there a man named Lecter convicted of multiple murders in the States? A dreadful affair,” the man shrugs at the recollection of the news, vague but still eliciting unpleasant reflexes.

Silence falls among the gathered patrons, perhaps trying to remember the specifics of the account or perhaps not considering this to be a subject appropriate for such a refined event.

Bedelia tenses immediately, but her face manages to retain its composure. She expects Hannibal’s sharp instincts to awaken with a start, but he remains undisturbed, his hand resting on her back with the same gentle reassurance as before.

“Most of my family was killed during the war, the remaining members not so long after,” Hannibal responds calmly while Bedelia’s muscles and nerves remain pulled tightly, “I am the only surviving namesake,” another pause as he takes a sip of his drink, further indicating his indifference, “But I cannot exclude a possibility of some distant cousin wreaking havoc across the ocean and my good name to boot,” he frowns with pretended hurt.

His comment is met with laughter, charmed faces once again focused on him; the sound clears the air of its heavy topic and relives Bedelia’s apprehension alongside it.

“We all have some skeletons in our family closets,” she speaks at last, her tone casual, but a clear purpose in her words, “I am sure you can agree, Doctor Felton,” she looks directly at the scholar.

Hannibal’s fingers press against her skin in wordless delight at her lure.

“We do,” the man responds with a smile, but his finger taps against his glass as if suppressing an unpleasant thought. It is a momentary gesture, but it is enough for Bedelia; she knows there is leverage to use against the man in case of any further _inconveniences_ on his part.

But she does not think they will need it. The conversation moves along in an instant, a vital subject of increasing customs taking centre stage, the previous digression already being forgotten in its out of place and mundane nature.

Soon the group trickles through, people looking to refresh themselves or their drinks being swiftly replaces by new arrivals, all eager to talk, or even catch a glimpse, of the striking couple.

The string quarter in the far corner ends one piece and seamlessly transitions into another melody. Hannibal’s hand returns to rest on the small of Bedelia’s back, his fingers gently tapping against her skin in tempo with the rising notes. His touch advances with heat beneath her skin, radiating to her core, giving Bedelia a new appreciation for the musical piece.

The conversation continues, but Hannibal does not seem to be interested in the exchange anymore, his mind elsewhere. Suddenly, he takes the empty glass from her hand and sets it on the tray of a passing waiter.

“Will you excuse us? I have promised my wife a dance,” Hannibal tilts his head in apology to the gathering and offers Bedelia his arm.

She is puzzled but accepts his hold, nodding her farewell and allowing him to escort her towards the space reserved for dancing.

“I don’t recall you promising me a dance,” she says, her eyebrow lifting questioningly as he moves to stand in front of her.

“It is implied in the one promise I made you,” his hand takes her, thumb brushing over her wedding rings.

Bedelia smiles, feeling butterflies waking up with a flutter in her stomach and moving towards her chest. She rests her hand on his shoulder, the train of her dress safely nestled between their clasped hands. Hannibal wastes no time, applying gentle pressure on her hand as he steps forward, beginning to lead her. Her body follows instinctively; she knows she could close her eyes and she would still not miss a single step under his sure direction. She senses the floor becoming emptier as some couples step aside to admire them instead. Hannibal takes immediate advantage of the space, their twirls becoming more expressive. Bedelia inhales with exhilaration, the people and lights around them turning into a golden haze as her eyes remain focused on Hannibal’s. She feels weightless in their dance and safe in his arms.

“When was the last time we have done this?” he asks all the sudden, continuing to sweep her across the floor with elation, his thumb brushing against her back in a covert caress.

Bedelia frowns at the needless question; they danced mere days ago. But she realises that it is not the dance he has in mind, not even the lavish setting, their own dining room not lacking by comparison in the slightest. It is the exhilaration of hiding in plain sight, the same one she found herself missing so unexpectedly. She squeezes his hand in silent concurrence, a playful half-smile on her lips.

As their beguiling glamour continues to draw the attention of the patrons, people stare at them without knowing who they really are. Yet they have never been more themselves.

**Author's Note:**

> This took me forever, but it is finally here! I loved writing this despite it all, completely enamoured with the image of them here, a love letter to my beautiful weirdos if you will.  
Bedelia's dress is partially based on a blue dress from the Marchesa 2020 spring collection (if you follow my tumblr, you know exactly which one as I have been posting/talking about it a lot).  
Museum of Fine Arts in Vienna is very unlikely to host a private gala of this kind, but I could not resist the setting, it's beyond stunning. Vienna is a very bedannibal city overall.  
Thank you for the patience to those who have waited for this. Thank you for reading to everyone who did.  
Please consider leaving a comment: life is bad and I would appreciate something positive. Will send love back ♥


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